Don't Fear the Reaper: No, really
by gert
Summary: If Reapers could be said to have human emotion, then it would be fair to say that most of them dreaded The Gathering.


_Some little-known facts about Reapers: Reapers are traditionally loners. Ageless, tireless and immortal, they prefer to do their jobs alone, and take pride in giving individual attention to the souls they take. Above all, Reapers want to help those they take to cross over peacefully; or if not peacefully, then at least quickly. Reapers tend to be perfectionists, and they don't like disorder or loose ends._

If Reapers could be said to have human emotion--which they would totally deny--then it would be fair to say that most of them dreaded The Gathering. Not just because it went against a Reaper's natural inclination to solitutde, but because The Gathering was a recent development for the Reapers, and change was another thing that Reapers didn't do well.

However, Reapers are practical creatures, and if a problem could only be solved through a Gathering, then there would be a Gathering. Of course, this was the fourth such Gathering in a little under a decade, so the Reapers in attendance could be forgiven for expressing a healthy skepticism about its effectiveness even as they showed up to discuss the problem at hand. Again. For a fourth time.

The head Reaper--who didn't refer to itself as Death Incarnate, even though that would be the closest human term to describing it (Reapers are notoriously modest)--called The Gathering to order in a typically efficient, Reaper-like fashion.

"Okay, we know why we're here. Susie's passing the hat. Please take one stone from the hat and keep it in a closed fist until I tell you to reveal." There was a pause while the Reapers did as they were instructed, and then the head Reaper acknowledged Susie's signal that she was finished with a curt nod.

"Everybody ready? Okay, who drew the black stone?" Murmurs of what could be called relief--if Reapers felt relief, which, again, they would totally deny--echoed through the gathering place, until a sharp, "Oh, shit!" caused them to fall silent.

The head Reaper turned toward the sound, suppressing a sigh. It was Shuford, one of the youngest Reapers, and considered somewhat volatile for his unseemly emotional tendencies.

"Shuford, come foward." The head Reaper infused its voice with authority, and struggled mightily to keep its expression neutral.

"Aw, man! This is so not fair." Shuford's grumbling could be heard clearly as he made his way toward the dais where the head Reaper stood, the others standing aside for him as he progressed. Finally, after what seemed an interminable wait, Shuford made it. The head Reaper drew in an entirely unncessesary breath, and spoke.

"Shuford, you know what you must do," it began, but Shuford, in typical fashion, interrupted.

"Duh. Of course, you know that I probably won't be able to do it. Why don't we just let this go? Seriously? Why do we have to keep humiliating ourselves?"

The head Reaper quickly counted to infinity by tens before stating the obvious, "It's our job. We do our job. You know what would happen if we didn't do our job, right, Shuford?"

The young Reaper waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Chaos. Dogs and cats living together. Blah, blah, blah. But this isn't giving up entirely--it's one case! And it's not like we haven't tried!"

"We keep trying."

"We keep failing! We're Reapers who can't Reap! We are totally the laughingstock of the entire supernatural realm, dude! Why don't we just let it go for a few decades, then revisit it?"

"No."

"Do I have to remind you what's happened every other time we've done this? I mean, okay, the first time was a fluke, and no one can blame Bob for wanting to get a little of his own back instead of taking care of business."

"Shuford..."

"And even the second time was understandable. That demon was a badass--a badass who is now dead, by the way, in case we need reminding of what we're up against."

"Shuford..."

"But come on! The rest of these can't be coincidences! How many Reapers accidentally fall into hellmouths? Jason was pushed, dude! Who pushes a Reaper?"

"Shuford!"

"The rabid hellhound incident? That whole thing with the zombies and the cursed pitchfork? The WERE-SHEEP, for crying out loud!"

"SHUFORD!" The chamber walls echoed with the head Reaper's voice.

Shuford huffed, but continued in a quieter voice, "I'm just sayin' I think we should wait a while, that's all, let time do the job for us."

"We do our job, Shuford. Now get going." Shuford hung his head in defeat and started toward the exit, mumbling under his breath about how "I told you so" isn't nearly as satisfying when you're uttering it from inside the belly of a were-sheep.

The head Reaper waited until the chamber was empty before allowing itself a small sigh. It wasn't as though it couldn't attend to the matter personally, after all, but that would have to be a last resort. It believed that its Reapers could handle unusual and difficult collections--and it would be damned if it was gonna call in the angelic host for help.

A short time later, a messenger appeared. That the messenger wasn't Shuford did not escape the head Reaper's notice. Its sigh was audible as it inquired, "What happened?"

The messenger--Chi-chi, the head Reaper remembered--fidgeted in a most un-Reaper-like manner before replying, "Did you know that Cthulu's in town?"

The head Reaper held up a hand to stop any further explanations. "That will be all, Chi-chi." The young Reaper fairly flew from the chamber, leaving the elder alone with its thoughts.

Sighing again, it sank down onto a chair that it had conjured for the purpose. It frowned, and kicked a foot in what could be called a petulant manner (if Reapers were ever petulant, which they totally weren't, thank you).

"Stupid Dean Winchester," it said.


End file.
